Take me away
by Gabrieth
Summary: yuri is overwhelmed by the crowed and bored out of his wits at a charity exhibition gala. Otabek is always around to help. Or how they became official.


"Take me away from here".

It sounded like pleading, he knew it, but it was a matter of life and death: the Angels were everywhere. Otabek looked at him, a smug smile plastered on his face. He knew what that smile meant: it'll cost you. And it will cost: he's had troubles with Lilia already for not showing up on time to the public warm up and having to ask mila to cover the hickeys that stood out even through the translucent fabric of his costume, almost following the transparencies to his chest. One could even think the bite marks were calculate. Cheeky bastard.

"Didn't your coaches tell you not to come looking for me?"

"Of course they did, you're a bad influence." and to that, Beka was clearly proud: the Russian punk found someone so willing to make mischief with, or to, him he was being called a "bad influence" by his own caretakers; it must be some kind of special achievement. Specially if they saw the pair like this: Yuri, already grown a few inches over his kazakh boyfriend, was slouching against the wall of one of the hallways of the exhibition gala,glaring defiantly at him; everyone was too busy around reporters and cameras to notice they were gone, but their respective coaches would still be looking for them in any minute.

"You're asking me to get us away from the gala: isn't that a bad influence?" they way he lifted his brow unleashed riots on the so called russian punk: he'd close the distance between them and rip him off that damned tight tank top he would be supposed to skate on later that night to shreds to get his own and well deserved payback if he so could.

"It's full of crazy chicks and even crazier reporters, and they're all looking to get pictures of the geezer and his piggy fiancee anyways. They won't look for us." They know it's right: the date for Viktor's wedding was approaching and every news channel wanted to get every detail of it. Still, giving in to the blonde won't be fun for neither of them, and the couple really do like fun and games. "Fine." The blonde sighed even though they both knew it was a bluff, "Take me out. Anywhere. Anyhow. But now. I'll leave the dirty details to you." The kazakh boy traced his lips with his tongue and sent a shiver down the russian's back; he knew what that gesture meant.

He've already had a plan. And not a chaste one.

* * *

He could see the evil smirk on his face through the rear view mirror while his partner was driving. He could imagine.

He could see them passing a bunch of girls with cat ears and banners (still? Doesn't it get old at some point?) who didn't even look up at two random guys in black leather jackets riding on the motorcycle besides them and knew they were getting through the less crowded side of town.

He could feel the engine stop its purr between his legs when he stop on a closed side street.

He could guess the hungry stare and the lip biting through the mirror when he said the words: "Get off." Almost too rough, like the growl of a predator about to jump.

He had no problem with that.

The blonde turned around the bike to stand next to his boyfriend, ready to taunt him. He didn't get the chance. Otabek gripped him by his thighs and sat him down on the tank of the bike in one swift move before he could even think of what to say.

"I took you out."

"That you did, yeah. What now, then, Beka?" he practically whispered, pressing his forehead to his, drinking the lust of the amber gaze that seemed wanting to devour him. The kazakh had three visible weaknesses: the sly smile he had barely an inch away from his face and couldn't wait to taste, the slim legs wrapped around his own, going up to his waist and straddling him, slowly, delicately, and that sweet soft _purred_ Beka. The nickname he was used to from back home, but, oh, the tone of it when it was rolled down his tongue, tempting, taunting, _wanting_.

He cursed under his breath out of desperation: he wanted to play further, to see him groan in despair and him please (oh but he never would, not really), to feel him losing his cool over his words, shattering under the caress of his hands, pleading for release on the most vulgar vocabulary ever displayed. As he does. But it could not happen today: they haven't seen each other for months, not personally, and skype is still not the same that this heat surrounding him, the hot sweet breath on his face, the almost moaned words clear in his ears, no speakers, no cameras, just him, in all his wicked perfection; the boy sure knew how to drive him crazy. "What's on your mind, Beka?"

"You. Always." he said and launched himself forward to gnaw at his neck mercilessly, earning a deep gasp from the blonde and a tight embrace from his thighs pushing him forward, trying to feel their bodies together, finally, after so much longing.

Yuri did try to snap back, to tease him, to mock him even: all that came out of his mouth were the deep meow-like moaning the insistent licking and tasting of the biker on every inch of discovered skin the costume for the gala offered him. And it was gonna show, again, dammit, but he can't pull up the strength to say no. He has waited for this for so long, he can take lilia's lectures a bit more. Fuck the cameras and the scandal: they never mentioned them together, they'd have nothing to stand on if they would.

He felt the boy's hands wandering down his chest, slowly to his waist and down, feeling him, stroking him, putting him on the edge as he kept arching his back and holding to his partner's broad shoulders to support himself while rubbing against him, extracting the most delicious smothered groans out of him, nails buried on the skin under that damn tank top, too tight to be comfortable right now, and even barely up. He wouldn't be the only one on the ice with sudden mark he couldn't explain tonight.

Beka pulled a hand away to hold onto the handlebar and the other one hid in between them, grasping the blonde's shaft harshly, sensing how his breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened, savouring the smallest on whines through his teeth: he was asking for more. And he would love to comply. But not yet. "Let's play a game, kitten."

"DON'T. Even start with that." Yuri was trying hard to sound menacing, but the thread of a voice left on him between the panting and the purring coming out of him in waves didn't really help. He heard the engine coming back to life, felt the vibration under his body.

"Be quiet: remember, we're on a street, after all. Stay quiet,and you get to choose tonight."

That did convince him, yet it wasn't such an easy task: Otabek was testing and enjoying every reaction on him: the way his lips parted as he came closer, and pouted right the next minute when he moved away after the most delicate brush of his own; the way his torso move closer to his to feel the touch, as minimum as it were, and kept on pressing on his crotch; the sly half smile on his face when he did so, earning himself deep growls against his collarbone in reward. Oh he could test and play all he wants, but it wouldn't last much longer, not while his kitten was pushing, thrusting into his hand even through the fine, sensitive fabric of the costume, and he could feel the throbbing, see the feral hunger of his half lidded gaze, his back now practically resting over the dashboard, and mouthing words that didn't quite come out. But they didn't need to either. He knew exactly what to do.

Otabek pushed himself over him and brushes his lip slightly against the boy's, forcing him to close the gap between them, desperately holding him by the back of his head, as if the sweetness of his mouth was a lifeline. The blonde's fingers curl against the flesh on the nape of his boyfriend's neck, leaving clear distinctive trails of red along the way; a exasperated grunt escaped the kazakh's throat: he wanted to have the willpower to stop him, he could feel him so close right now. He didn't.

Yuri finally melted into his embrace, hugging tightly and biting the boy's lower lip in despair to stop the wailing to be heard across the dark empty street. But before anything else could happen, he pushed the biker away and sat up on the bike's tank. "Stop. like that. That's what I want."

"Wha-"

"Well, I won." that mischievous grin. The damn russian punk, uh? "I want you just like this. On my bedroom. After all of this.. Charade, ends."

"You can't mean.." He wouldn't DARE. there are consequences to certain actions. He wouldn't .

"I do. Don't even think about touching yourself, Beka." And that meowing of his name again. They boy could drive him crazy, yes, but he would make him enjoy it, too. Long for it. "I'd know."

"We have to get on the ice in a few minutes." The blonde laughed as if it were an innocent joke. And how did he wish it was a joke.

* * *

He missed a jump or two. He got up almost immediately anyways, not paying attention to the skinny blonde guy on the bleachers looking at him like he was going to be his next meal, to the pain of not being able, not being _allowed_ even to finish himself off before going on the ice, to the curiosity, the expectation of the after gala visit. He was cheered regardless, in spite of the scolding he got from his trainer when he noticed the swollen scratches from his neck all the way to under his top. He still thought of it as a successful exhibition.

* * *

He danced and glided like he was born on it: he looked like an angel stretching his wings across the rink. He most definitely wasn't.

He knew his skating was getting compromised, that he couldn't concentrate right, but every time he passed through that particular spot on the bleachers, he could see the boy, all broad shoulders and strong legs in that damn skinny thigh silky black outfit, smiling at him a smile that only he knew. Only he could tell what it meant. And he couldn't focus; he couldn't stop staring.

He would jump off the ice if he could.

Every eye was into him.

He was hating the spotlight.

* * *

They stood on the middles of the ice, waving and listening to the commentators about the charity behind the gala. That was their job right now: just standing there, pretending they don't want to get out of that damn place at once.

That they don't want to tear off each other's clothes with their teeth.

It was a hard thing to pretend. And Altin wasn't doing much of a good job about it: he'd take advantage of the practically non existent space between them to brush his finger against the other boy's palm, drawing small, lazy circles on it. Yuri was savage, animalistic in his way to love, but he'd melt under the sweet gentle attentions the kazakh new how to give. And the subtle stroking of their hands was pushing his limits; he bit the insides of his mouth to avoid turning to him.

Four years they've met each other. Four years they've been playing dumb, texting and skyping almost every day. Three years of insinuating photos with seemingly innocent captions for one, and straightforward "you're too beautiful to tease me like this, Yura" from the other. Three years of pretending the panting on their voice on the audios sent was because of training, sleep, anything but their hands desperately running through their bodies, wanting to feel the other's skin on their own. Unable to do so.

And a whole year of straight up skype sex and furtive meetings on random countries, in between competitions, wherever they could. A whole year of romanticism and cute little texts in the morning, and holding hands when no one was looking. A whole year of "I love you"s, too far to feel as warm as they were supposed to. But they were there, and they did feel like home. Wherever the hell that was.

Four years and not a single picture on public forums, not one single mention on the headlines. Four years of official rivalry, and private adoration.

Four years, and they've never knew. Oh, but the longing was eating the blonde out from the inside.

Four years might be enough. After all, he was the one who asked to keep it private. The job, he said: the fans, the cameras, the drama. But the secret was too much for him to handle; every time someone tried to ask his boyfriend about his love life and his closeness to any girl on his rink, any fan a bit bolder who might have manage to get close enough to ask for a picture, his heart sank on his chest. He was tired of the secrecy already, he would take the risk. This time, he would.

* * *

Otabek was playing with his fingers on the other boy's hand, trying to survive the impulse to hold it, knowing he shouldn't. He could feel a new set of eyes staring at him, not from the bleachers, but from…

He turned around to see the emerald green gaze on him, on his mouth, the need reflected on the way the boy pouted at him. He heard the small, heartwarming whisper and couldn't stop himself anymore.

He took his hand and pulled him into an embrace, holding the boy's cheek with his other hand, kissing his softly, lovingly. He felt a hand delicately around his waist, running under his shirt; he felt another on his hair, stroking delicately, strolling his fingers through the undercut. He felt the murmured words on his mouth, the collective gasp of the audience, and smiled.

It couldn't have gone better.

"Myshka. I love you."


End file.
